CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The rain couldn’t make up its mind. One minute it was a downpour, and the next a gentle mist. The wind whipped it up, splattering their faces and slipping under their cloaks. By the time they stopped to make camp near the village of Dunneshead, each member of the troop was soaked to the bone.
Evylin flexed her hand, refusing to let it drift toward her wedding rings. Over the past few days, she’d hardly stopped tugging on them. It wasn’t only the weight of her depression that clouded her mind, begging for distraction. It was the discovery of Deckard’s magic and his constant tutelage too.
From the moment they’d discovered his status as an Existential Mage, Auden hadn’t let up for a moment.
If he wasn’t walking Deckard through the finer points of focus and connection to the resources, he was lecturing on the history of magic, listing the greatest Mages of the past millennium, or orating about the vast potential each existent held.
Except for Night magic. Any time Auden mentioned that resource, he inevitably began a short diatribe about how it warped the minds of every Night Mage, twisting them into villainous madmen.
Evylin would have sympathized with Deckard if her thoughts weren’t already mangled with anxiety. It felt as though the terrae was collapsing beneath her feet. Everything she’d believed was wrong. Everything she’d feared was coming true.
Helping Ethenn hobble the horses, Evylin’s hands trembled around the rope.
She couldn’t escape the memories of Deckard’s test. Despite her desire to escape the moment, she’d sat at his side and did as Ilain suggested—she focused.
She drew in a breath and let the “Poem of Life” guide her into a nearly trancelike state.
It was a soothing experience considering the last month of her life. Easily, she’d found her magic, that cool sensation tracing across her veins and into her head. The world came to life with clarity, and her heart settled.
Then Deckard touched her.
His grip on her arm sent an immediate jolt racing through her body.
Every past experience she’d had with magic paled in comparison.
In the moment of his touch, her senses lit up, taking in everything with shocking detail.
It was as though the world slowed down as her perception increased.
The steady chill calmed her thoughts, giving her a heightened awareness.
Her skin prickled, and her muscles tensed, ready for action.
Evylin recognized the response intimately. It was the feeling she experienced both in a fight and when Deckard kissed her. It was her magic responding, her focus engaging, and her very being connecting with the foundation of Terraeus. And she finally understood.
She’d always questioned her reaction to Deckard—to his touch, to his kiss.
Before she realized she was a Warrior and thereby connected the sensation to her magic, she’d asked Hewitt if he’d ever experienced it outside of a fight.
He’d said no. Then she’d asked Thom’s advice, questioning if kissing anyone would feel the same. She’d concluded that it must.
Now, she knew, it wouldn’t because the experience wasn’t coming from Evylin alone. It was Deckard’s magic that hers responded to.
“Warriors and Mages are meant to be together.”
Evylin ran her hand over her horse’s smooth coat, avoiding the company of her troop. While she longed for the distraction of conversation, she struggled to find words these days. And with Auden’s constant training, she couldn’t forget the unbearable truth it brought.
Evylin refused to believe in fate. No greater power than King Ephren had brought Deckard to Whickam Village and into her life. They weren’t written in the stars or destined by Allore above. But that didn’t change the fact that Ilain was right: Warriors and Mages were meant to be together.
She felt it in her innermost being, this truth.
She’d even tested her theory, intentionally bumping into Auden the previous evening, grabbing hold of his arm, and seeking the stirring of magic within her.
And sure enough, it was there. Not as potent as with Deckard, but still shifting under the surface as though waking from a deep sleep.
So now Evylin knew—if she wanted to experience that rush, that feeling of being wholly alive, she had to be with a Mage.
She knew it should make her happy. After all, life as a Warrior married to a Mage must be the grandest adventure possible, just as she and Ryen had imagined. And she’d bet her future to ensure that their dream didn’t die in Whickam Village with him. Surely, this revelation meant she’d succeeded.
But Evylin trembled at the thought of that life. Here she was, standing in a wet, muddy forest with a band of rebel soldiers and two Waulden Mages attempting to overthrow two countries. This was “adventure”—the fulfillment of her and Ryen’s dreams. And the price was vastly too high.
Without warning, thunder erupted, startling the troop and the horses just as a fresh deluge came down. They all broke for the densest tree cover. Even under the thick leaves, they were soaked in an instant.
“That’s it!” Deckard exclaimed, ducking under the short branches of two rowans. He looked straight at Auden, his expression tense. “Tomorrow, we’re going into town to buy tents.”
“Dunneshead is a village,” Auden objected. “It’s too small to risk—”
“We’ve spent two whole weeks sleeping soaked to the bone,” Deckard said sharply. “It’s a wonder we aren’t ill.”
Rafferty sniffled, hunched beneath the boughs despite his short stature. His eyes and nose were red, and his voice was crackly. “Speak for yourself,” he grumbled.
Auden gave the sick man an apologetic glance before turning back to Deckard. “It’s too dangerous,” he said.
“No more dangerous than freezing to death,” Thom said in agitation.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Ilain retorted, but set a hand on her brother’s arm to stall his rebuttal. “They’re right. We’re pushing too hard as it is. We can’t risk entering the Keep with so much as a head cold.”
Auden sighed, then waved a hand in beleaguered acceptance. “Fine. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”
Deckard nodded but didn’t say a word. He stood several feet away from Evylin, his shoulders slumped and his head ducked as he attempted to hold his rain cover.
Though his hood shadowed most of his face, she could see the pinch between his brows.
It’d been locked there since he’d held the Night Relic, unveiling his magic.
She felt sorry for him, her heart’s attachment fighting to resurface.
She shoved it down with all her internal might.
Rafferty shivered next to Evylin. “Think they’d pick up some ale while they’re at it?” he asked.
She gave him a half-felt grin. “I’ve never heard of ale curing a cold.”
“It’s not for medicinal purposes,” he said dryly, his tone even more nasal than usual.
Evylin granted him a stifled chuckle.
Under their rowan, Evylin leaned against the spindly branches.
Rain splashed against the leaves, springing up into her face.
She closed her eyes, flinching away. Behind her closed lids, she saw a flash of deep blue water, the undulations of the waves closing in on her.
Her ears filled with pressure, the humming of Shades drawing nearer. She was going to drown.
Evylin sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flying open.
“You all right?” Rafferty asked, silver-gray gaze keen.
Curling her hands into fists, she replied honestly. “No.”
Then she darted from under their tree and over to where Deckard huddled a few steps away. He looked over as she approached, alert. Neither of them bothered with pleasantries.
“Could I speak with you?” she asked quietly.
Readily, he shifted out from under the branches. “Thom,” he called.
His brother turned, standing close to Ilain’s side.
“We’ll be back shortly,” Deckard said, passing command to him.
Hurrying through the forest, Evylin and Deckard sought cover a short distance from the others. Not so far that they were out of earshot, but far enough that they wouldn’t have to worry about being overheard.
The foggy grayness of Wauld clung to the trees around them, making Evylin feel caged in. She couldn’t take a clear breath with her mind clouded with fear and sorrow.
Deckard stared down at her, eyes bright despite the darkness. Compassion and worry threaded together in his low brow and taut mouth. “What is it?” he asked.
“I—” The words stuck to Evylin’s tongue. She couldn’t meet his gaze, too uncomfortable with the knowledge that what she’d once thought was unique to them was now nothing but magic. His touch wasn’t special. He didn’t make her feel alive. His magic did.
Shaking the thought off, Evylin sucked in a frigid breath. “I want to go with Auden tomorrow,” she said.
He was silent for several seconds. Then he sighed. “No.”
Evylin bit the inside of her lip to keep from grimacing. “Jonn,” she tried to look up at him but couldn’t, “please, I—I need to go with him.”
Deckard ran a hand over his mouth and beard as though holding in his response. His booted feet shifted in the soggy terrae. “It’s too dangerous,” he said at last.
“Don’t do that,” she said, her voice hollow and tired. “Don’t pretend you’re protecting me when you know I can defend myself. It’s less dangerous for me to go than for you.”
“You’re more valuable than I am,” he argued.
“Not anymore.”
“Warriors are in shorter supply than Mages.”
Evylin had anticipated difficulty in convincing Deckard, but now faced with it, she felt ill-prepared for the task.
Her eyes burned with welling emotion, and she forced herself to take a long breath before trying another approach.
“Try to understand,” she murmured, desperation stealing her voice. “I need to go.”
Deckard stepped forward instinctively. His hand slipped out from under his cloak to reach for her, but he stopped himself. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed.
“Evylin,” he said gently, “I can’t risk you.”